


Break

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Fingering, Fisting, Hand injury, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, he should probably be at the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He’s stubborn, willing to hurt himself to prove a point even if you don’t know what the pointis. But that doesn’t mean he won’t make it good for you.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 18





	1. Spark

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this.

You’d be willing to bet that even when you’re good, he wouldn’t be gentle. There’s no forgetting the sheer heft, the strength, the vicious _drive_ of him. He’s like a banked fire, capable at any moment of exploding into a shower of sparks. 

And you’ve seen him pull himself up and over a wall by the fingertips after a job gone bad, half blind from the blood in his eyes and shoving his hurt down underneath that careful control. 

Afterward, in the dark of the safe house, you’d touched yourself to the thought of those thick fingers, scraped and raw as they were. Fingered yourself, biting pale crescents into the meat of your other hand, but your hands just aren’t _big_ enough. You come, shivering and clenching around four fingers while he dozes in the other room. After you manage to scrape yourself off the bathroom floor, you crawl shakily into the other bed. And maybe it’s a trick of the light, but for a heart-stopping moment you swear you see his eyes in the gloom, watching you.


	2. Break

It’s a car door that does it, of all things. You’re chasing a target who has the impertinence to dive headlong into the back of an idling SUV. Walker, close behind, reaches in and then—

Well, now you know what it sounds like when a man’s fingers break _all at once._

_Christ_ , you think later as you’re turning one of his hands over in both of yours, trying to gauge the scope of his injury. _I’d say get some hand insurance but no company in the world would cover you_. It’s not until he hmms softly that you realize you’ve spoken out loud. Embarrassed, you look up. His eyes are dark, almost black from the adrenaline still coursing through his body. He seems almost...thoughtful. 

And then he opens his mouth. 

“Get undressed.” You open your mouth to protest but snap it shut again at the sight of him and _hell_ , you’re already half naked and folding your clothes neatly because you instinctively know that’s what he’d want. “Good.” One word shouldn’t send heat flaring out from your core like that but by god it does. 

“How many?” He asks. 

“How many what?” You don't know what he means, but there’s something, scratching at the back of your mind. 

“That night. At the safehouse. You thought of me, when you touched yourself, didn’t you. _How many fingers did you have inside?”_

Oh. And then. You answer _four_ , voice shaking. He smirks. 

“You’re going to get on the bed. And then you’re going to take _all five_ of mine.”

His hands are hot when he touches you, leaving feverish trails in their wake as his fingers skate ghost-light down your flanks. By the time he passes over your iliac crest, you’re already slick and shaking for him. His face is still carefully neutral, as if he’s waiting in line at the DMV and not preparing to fuck his partner. 

And then. 

He takes a single breath, holds it, breathes out through his nose as the first finger slips inside. His thumb comes up to rub at you, a spark to stoke the fire building inside. 

And then there are two fingers, stroking your walls. 

And then three. 

When you come it takes you by surprise, a noise that’s half gasp and half shriek punching out of you as you clench around his fingers. 

And when you come back to your senses, his fingers are still there, their movement slower now but still thick and firebrand-hot inside you. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them and there’s a fine sheen of sweat breaking across his forehead. You reach down for his hand but he fixes you with a look. 

“I said five.”

_I am going to die_ , you think. _I am actually, literally going to die._ Because he’s withdrawing his hand just enough to fold his fourth finger alongside the others, and slide them all. back. inside. The press and stroke of him is almost gentle, timed to his slow, deep breaths. And then he’s bending down, hunching over his hand, and you feel the first press of tongue replace his thumb. 

His tongue curls and presses against you, saliva adding to the mess. You can feel his mustache brushing against you and you want to scream. Probably are screaming, but you can’t tell because the senses seem to have fled your body. The entire world is narrowed down to his mouth and his hand. 

And then. 

He folds his thumb in, and his entire hand is pressing into you, and it _burns._

“Breathe,” he says, looking up at you from under a sweaty fall of hair, and he should probably take his own advice because his voice is just _wrecked._

Then his mouth is on you again, and he moves his hand _just so_ , and you fall into darkness. 

When you come back to yourself, your body is still shuddering with the aftershocks. Walker’s forehead is resting on your belly, and his hand is _still inside you_. He withdraws, and even as slow as he goes, it still pulls a weak moan from you. 

And when you finally find the strength to raise your head and look at him, he’s pale, sweaty, and smug. His curls are everywhere, his mustache is glistening, and—

“Good,” he’s saying, and you’re not sure why he’s soothing you when he looks inches from collapse. His words draw your eyelids down anyhow, and you drift away to the sound of his voice. “So good. You did so well for me.”


End file.
